


three days tops

by joeri



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Gen, Insomnia, Post-Sburb, Strider Brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 18:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16164269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeri/pseuds/joeri
Summary: skip to being done with this.





	three days tops

**Author's Note:**

> this was sat in my drafts for far too long. also kinda venty but all dirk strider shit kinda is.

Dirk planned a lot— _plans_ a lot. You’ll find that it’s a thing he never stops doing. From the day that he was born, not a single being picked up the slack. From little green goo to the green shit he’d spit into the linoleum when his tummy was rumbly, who was there?

A puppet and an oversized bust, naturally.

So Dirk planned accordingly. They all must’ve, to an extent; though maybe not Jane. The lot of them really did raise themselves. Dirk coordinated what he’d eat the next day, if possible. You could never tell when the next particularly nefarious bout of depression would manifest, one where getting up and taking care of yourself was just a smidgen harder than it’d been the day before. Dirk grew up alone— grew up knowing this principle intimately. He hadn’t had to learn it. He’d been born in it.

Y’know how when you’re sick there’s usually some mom or dad, or maybe a brother or grandma who’d bring you some soup? Maybe juice? They’d rest a cold rag on your forehead?

Dirk’s seen it on television. Frankly, he’d lie in bed instead and ponder which to be worse— starving or the splitting his head would do were he to right himself. Curtains already drawn over the windows, blotting out what sun had been left on the horizon, he’d nurse migraines by his lonesome.

These instances had to be accounted for. Every experience was an endless stream of knowing what came next. It’s what Dirk sought to achieve. Apart from his dabbles in artificial technology where he sought out the unpredictable (only to find self-professed malignance mirrored again and again), _everything_ had to be that endless stream of knowing what came next. All was as it were, but for one thing.

Frowning, Dirk sucks on his teeth mindlessly. He hums, pontificates to himself about the giraffes and the dolphins and certain breeds of elephant that do not sleep, and he drums his fingers against his arm.

Loneliness is somewhat worse when you don’t dream, Dirk thinks. It’s not like he’d know when in truth he’s never dreamt. He just… thinks it would explain a lot, and shrugs at that notion. He shrugs, because he’s unsure.

It’s poor form of him to become victim into such a pitfall when he forgets that not everyone discovered the ins and outs of Derse's moon at twelve— that it’s somewhat an anomaly how wakeful he’s been. Much time before he’d ever learned of the game, he’d woken up to those violet ceilings. Its labyrinthine structure made an adventurer out of him when he’d become brave enough— Cal’s hand in his hand. The perfume of his princely sheets, a sort of lilac lulled him soft but did not smother. Dirk could lie forever, eyes wide shut, wondering what he was there to do. Time passed like infinity. It does as much when you never truly sleep.

It’d been a haunting realization to others who were not Dirk Strider; Dirk has never slept, only passed his wakefulness to another body, another land.

And for all of his forethought, every architectural idea, Dirk had a miscalculation. Truth be told, maybe it had crossed his mind once, but he didn't consider how detrimental it could be. It’s the sort of slip-up you make when you forget the collective rest of the world is right-handed, because you are not. It’s the kind of mistake you make when you forget Jake can’t wear the shades you sent him, because he wears glasses, and you do not.

Dying meant no more dreams of Derse.

Dying meant… finding out what sleep really felt like, if not waking up in a parallel world.

That’s okay, Dirk thinks. That’s not so bad.

He just wouldn't go to bed. Problem solved. It’s wasn't as if Dirk ever felt the need in the Medium. Even if sleep would have benefited the Prince of Heart greatly, it's not like anyone but him were privy to the notion that he were slowly losing his mind, right?

Just to be contrary, please believe that even if anyone else had been aware, Dirk had always known first. It shined back into his eyes every second he’d been alive, terribly, _deplorably_ aware. Awareness did not help.

But he didn't need sleep. His one and only nap taught him that.

The first brush with the horrorterrors was not the worst. Could’ve been… _worser,_ he supposes. Huge tentacled things just weren’t his bag, and meeting with weird aliens in windingly warbling backdrops were unfavorable. It all bled into static and noise.

Just don’t sleep. It’s fine. This doesn’t have to be a thing.

…

But what now?

Dirk lies wide awake and lets the ceiling fan spin. It rotates on its axis so often. He knows this is centrifugal force at work. He knows as much as he wants it to whirl wildly out of control, rip from the plaster and hack him to bits, there’s no chance in hell. It’s less because it’s sturdy (because it’s not) and more because it’s all wood and hard plastic. Dirk cleaned it this morning.

His hands still smell of the wood polish, and also kinda like robot— the aroma of lemon and oil commingle. It sits in his mouth and weighs on his tongue. He runs his hands back through his hair. His teeth _grind._ He knows the clock beside him reads 3:45 because it’s been ten minutes since he last looked. Despite this, the terrorizing cherry red lies to him and says it’s only been two. Dirk licks his chapped lips, tongue catching on a crusty bit. His fingers squeeze into fists.

And his head won’t _stop._

The squeezing of his jaw is only perfunctory when he strangles a breath down in his throat, and when he exhales, his teeth rattle around. Dirk muffles a whine in his throat.

_This is pathetic. I’m pathetic._

How many days exactly has it been now, he wonders. A worn-in ache radiates from the backs of Dirk’s eyes as they bore into his shades. The brightness of the screen could afford to be dimmer. It’d help curb this headache. It’d help him _go the fuck to bed_ but for all Dirk’s grumbling, he doesn’t appear to be giving it the best try that he could.

One of Dirk’s legs juts impudently from the mattress, dragging across the floor. He lifts it now and again when he remembers that something could reach out from the bed. It’s a noble fear.

Maybe if he pulled up the covers, turned on his side, did something other than stare up at the patterns in the roof— maybe _turned the damn computer off_ —

Dirk drags his hand down his face, yanking his glasses with him. His blood pressure rises. 

_Afraid?_

Yeah. Sort of, he thinks. Dirk cringes, making no bones about his own fragility, at least when talking to himself— the version himself that he can talk to the most without threat of ridicule.

Regular people dreams can’t be too terrible, right? It can’t be much different than the dream bubbles he’s experienced, right? Only instead they don’t mean anything and hold no intrinsic merit. Right.

Dirk’s eyes magic themselves shut with the promise that inventing a machine that skips the REM cycle should be next priority. He'd skip this whole fiasco if possible. No nightmares or secret messages or hidden movies in his head. None of that. Just him and the black television of the void for eight hours straight. That sounded much more appealing. And yet… Dirk bites the inside of his lip.

_This is stupid. You’re being stupid._

His ligaments all feel heavy and his fingers itch at the sheets.

What he wants to know is how people do this every night: go somewhere completely new and live stories of no purpose or place. It’s not alien in name or concept, merely experience. Just like so many other human rites of passage. It’s in every movie he’s seen. It’s in books and even in magazines that will impart to you what the meaning of your dreams are. It’s a part of being human felt entirely unowed to him.

With every wobble of the ceiling fan above, it squeaks, and Dirk opens his eyes again. He orients his glasses once more. He’s got a message. It’s from Dave.

Well. That’s better than most company.

If Dirk had to turn to another person for help, he'd sooner choke. Dave is a good second choice. The both of them think it’s kinda cool to burden one another with each others bullshit. Comes with the territory of being sorta alternate universe older brothers— the free reign to expose your sibling to as much of your garbage as they’ll take. It’s what Dave insisted upon anyways, thinking it was proper form.

Not like Dirk minded. It was understandable.

Something about Dave opening up like that first made it sort of easy for Dirk to come the rest of the way.

His eyes scan the message.

TG: you awake?

Dirk blinks, uncertain.

_Well. Am I?_

TT: Sure.  
TG: for how long  
TT: Judging by the burning in my retinas and the general fatigue in my whole body, three days, maybe?  
TG: no like  
TG: i meant how long are you planning on being awake for  
TG: jesus christ dude  
TT: Yeah, I'm just doing this for fun at this point.  
TT: For sport, even. Cause it's that fun.

Dirk nudges his glasses up over his eyebrows, smoothing his thumb and first two fingers against his eyes in small circles. A distraction is good.

A _distaction_ even.

TT: I got to thinking.  
TT: What’s the best waste of my fucking time right now? Just what is the most optimal way to throw buckets and buckets of my own personal clock over the boat and into the fucking ocean, like it’s the revolutionary war only instead of hating tea I hate myself.  
TT: So I figured.  
TT: Why not just stay up for three days straight. It’ll be funny. You’ll go apeshit over it, Dirk. Trust me.  
TT: I trusted myself.  
TT: I'll tell you now I guess. I've been going nigh anthropoidal over it, dude. My shit is parked so squarely and illegally in Donkey Kong Country that it's gonna get a ticket. A ticket that can only be paid in bananas, of which I can assure with aplomb, my barrel of such runneth over with the fruits of my apeshittery. I'm doing buku donuts in the parking lot. Dixie Kong just flashed me.  
TT: Best idea ever.

Dave’d been typing for quite a while. It doesn’t dawn on Dirk until after he’s really flapped off at the gums there. His pupils shrink a little. The grayed-out bubble complete with those tiny pulsating dots has blipped out of existence. Dirk curls his lips into his mouth and bites down hard.

_Please don’t fuck off._

That’s fine, he guesses. All Dave had wanted to do was chat for a second or two and already Dirk’s made such an ass of himself. It’s like he was looking for any excuse to mouth off, to babble at someone. Just wonderful that he's already let his insanity peek it's lumbering malformed head out.

Dirk winces. He can’t… bother anyone else with any of this. It’s never worked out okay. Talking about how he feels has never been productive. In fact, it’s always without fail managed to make things worse, and it’s just as well that this would happen after Dirk had imparted such sacred thoughts to his would-be sibling— secrets like, _“I think I still have feelings for Jake,”_ and _“I don’t know how to sleep and quite frankly, the thought of it terrifies me.”_

Dreams were so much of a mixed bag, weren’t they? Completely out of Dirk’s control.

He _needed_ the control.

Sounded like if you were lucky, dreams could be pleasantly bizarre, and if not, you’d reside in your own personal hell until waking. Average luck was no use. Dirk curled up on his side and felt his sunglasses shift up his nose and to the side. It skewed to an angle. The glasses poked a hole against his bedsheets. His arms wrapped around his knees and he shut his eyes tight.

_Please, keep talking to me, Dave._

A cold thread snags as it slides through Dirk’s chest. It catches in his sternum. His mouth is dry.

TT: Hey.

_Maybe, don’t fuck this up. Maybe don’t do that, considering what happened the last time._

Of course, Dirk thinks bleakly. How could he forget? Everything he touches turns to stone, lithifies and crumbles in his face.

_Don’t cling._

Squinting at his fingers, the bastards that they are, he grimaces bitterly.

_Don’t cling, not at all and not terribly._

TT: Never mind.  
TG: open up

The door downstairs gets beat upon righteously. Dave’s beatboxing technique always did blow him away.

Still, Dirk does not move.

TT: Did you just abuse your time bullshit just to chill with me?  
TG: yea so  
TT: Cool.

That’s really all Dirk wants to say on the matter, but… his throat tightens. The state of his room, of his existence is suddenly so very blinding and so apparent to him. Sitting up in bed, he feels his sweaty body unstick from the pillow. Hair clings to his cheeks in a way it doesn’t do when he’s clean and not disgusting. There’s spit in the corners of his mouth.

_Oh, there’s no way he’s coming in here._

TT: Wait, are you serious?  
TG: no dude i flew here for no reason at all just to shit on your doorstep and leave  
TT: I see we’re not above ding-dong ditching in the Strider family.  
TG: fuck no its a classic  
TG: thats what i do for my buddies in need of a good cheering up  
TG: just pop a few squats on their gorgeous mlp doormat and let it rip like a beyblade  
TG: what is that shit called by the way when you put the bag of dog shit on some poor saps doorstep and light it up  
TT: Arson.  
TG: yea  
TT: It’s a felony.  
TG: was a felony  
TG: this is new earth now  
TT: This is my Consort Kingdom and Proconsul Rainbros von Crocodile says it's a felony. Anyways, this conversation’s bad. I have to shower before I look at people.  
TG: ok ill time skip to you being done with doing that  


And he does. And so they chill. And when Dirk cries a little bit it's too reminiscent of Dave to make either of them embarrassed.

And Dirk can't skip to being done with it, but he's placated by the way Dave tucks a sliver of blond hair behind his ear and keeps yammering on as he does. It's proof that he's staying put too, even if he doesn't have to.


End file.
